


Ballade at Nine Hundred and Seven

by Irrealia



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot, Sexual Fantasy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What kind of man is the Eleventh Doctor? A man who uses his ability to see all that ever is, was, and could be to provide wank fodder when it comes to temptations he's too smart to give into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ballade at Nine Hundred and Seven

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers** : Through _Amy's Choice_ (S05E07)  
>  **Disclaimer** : Like Amy Pond, I sometimes play games with the Doctor, but I always give him back to the BBC at the end of the day.  
>  **Notes** : You got your angst in my smut! No, you got your smut in my angst! The sex you shouldn't be having is always the hottest. (P.S. I'm using to producing filth, but for a predominantly male audience, and usually on the fly. Concrit is love.)  
>  **Extra Special Thanks** : To Dorothy Parker, who never fails me with her poetry.

_Pictures pass me in long review,--_  
Marching columns of dead events.  
I was tender, and, often, true;  
Ever a prey to coincidence.  
Always knew I the consequence;  
Always saw what the end would be.  
We're as Nature has made us—hence  
I loved them until they loved me.  
\- Dorothy Parker, 'Ballade at Thirty-Five'

He told her that he brought her along because he needs her perspective. The truth is that he needs her—has always needed all of them—as a distraction. There's just too much in his brain otherwise. Too much in the brain means too much on the mind, too many voices in his head and no wonder he can't manage to think properly as this him while other people are talking.

The problem is that right now it's her voice in his head.  
__  
\- Amy, I'm 907 years old. Do you know what that means?  
\- It's been awhile?  
  
Not as long as she thought. God bless Good Queen Bess.  
__  
\- Poor Amy. He always leaves you doesn't he. Alone in the dark. Never apologises.  
\- He doesn't have to.  
\- That's good, because he never will. And now he's left you with me. Spooky old not-to-be-trusted me. Anything could happen.  
\- Who are you? And what do you want? The Doctor knows you, but he's not telling me who you are. And he always does. Takes him awhile sometimes, but he tells me. So you're something different.  
\- Oh, is that who you think you are? The one he trusts?  
\- Actually, yes.  
\- The only girl in the universe to whom the Doctor tells everything.  
\- Yes.  
\- So what's his name?

River knew it. He didn't know when the time would come to tell her, he didn't even know if this him would tell her, but he would do. Rose probably knew it by now, though he couldn't know for certain. Amy was a very unlikely candidate for that particular mark of intimacy.  
__  
\- Now, which one of these men would you really choose? Look at them. You ran away with a handsome hero. Would you really give him up for a bumbling country doctor who thinks the only thing he needs to be interesting is a ponytail?  
\- Stop it.  
\- Well maybe it's better than loving and losing the Doctor. 

Well, he's certain it would be. He's very old. He knows how the world works. He knows what effect he has on others. He remembers Rose, shattering into little pieces on a beach in a second Norway... and her future self, brittle skin in a leather shell. Armed to kill, and probably with a body count he didn't really want to know about. Rose, who lost herself in danger-driven kisses, danger-driven rutting, and had to find herself again the hard way. And after her, Martha. Clever Martha, patient Martha, who left before he could do his worst.

Amy is more or less the same age. Amy has already loved and lost him twice. Amy is the one he has a chance to do better by. That's why he has to shut up the voices in his head, his voice, the 'Dream Lord's' voice, her voice. Her voice, trusting and brave and angry and lewd. Every single thing about it, every single thing about the way she loved him—wrong. They are two things that never should have touched.

He hears the universe breaking around him as he replays her very skilled kisses, remembers jumping away, pulling back, lest unavoidable physical reactions discredit his very reasonable protestations. Willing is a matter of the mind, not the body, the body can't think, or he'd have to think much too hard about how he's much too hard and what if he'd just let her grab his braces and tug him to the bed?

He eases his fly open. Too much noise. Blood winging through every capillary. All that is, was, and ever could be. This could be Amy's hand, her soft, well manicured hand, working the even softer skin of his cock. Amy's clever tongue could be here, Amy could be licking her way up from root to tip, flicking her tongue over the little wet bead leaking from the slit. Any girl who kissed like that had to give fantastic—oh god. The way she would look up at him, lips slick with spit and him, eyes on fire, daring him to like it.

Daring him to finish the job he started fourteen years ago and destroy her properly.  
_  
You may be a robot, but are you a man?_

He is very much a man, very much a man who wants her as much as he doesn't, very much a man who could have pushed her back away from him and onto the bed, flat on her back. A man who could have hiked up her skirt, torn at her tights, and leant over her, forehead to forehead, asking her if she still trusted him, before ripping it away with one slamming thrust, staring straight into her wide hazel eyes. Going mad with her, being impossible with her, showing her how he cares for her in the way she understands best and needs least, dirt from her trainers soiling the back of his shirt as she wraps herself around him and holds on to him as if he were the only thing in the universe. It could be, for a moment, just the two of them and their screams. Amy would scream. Amy's the type to scream. Is he the type of man who screams?

He finds out when he comes, hard and shuddering and perfectly silent, that he isn't.


End file.
